


Another kind of darkness

by CulterVenatorius



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beverly Katz is the Best, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Rating May Change, Revenge, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, That's not how trauma therapy works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CulterVenatorius/pseuds/CulterVenatorius
Summary: “It hurt, Hannibal, it hurt so much.”And Hannibal can picture it with agonizing clearness. A malnourished boy with pale skin, too small for his age. Tears clinging to long eyelashes, the bluish-green eyes wide-opened with fear. A shadow looming over him.--------When Hannibal tries to coax the darkness inside Will to the front, he accidentally opens a closed chamber with another kind of darkness.--------And I deleted the archive warning. I think rape/non-con doesn't refer to past child abuse and I don't want to mislead anyone. But I'm not experienced in rating and warning, so please let me know if you feel different.





	1. Because not doing it...

**Author's Note:**

> It's more than a year ago that I started this fic. My English might have improved a little bit, but it's still horrible.  
> Furthermore, I don't know how I feel about this story in general, and especially because it includes sensitive topics. Please take care of yourself.  
> Well, I'll give it a try and we'll see how it goes.  
> I appreciate constructive criticism, but please voice it in a nice way.

 

“ _I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”_

“ _Whose profile are you working on? Whose profile is he working on?”_

“ _I'm sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”_

“ _Please, don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed.”_

 

* * *

 

Hannibal replays their first conversation in his mind while watching Will, who paces restless through his office like a trapped animal. Months have gone by since their first meeting in Jack Crawford's bureau and since then all they do is sparring. Both of them enjoy these verbal battles, that much he can tell. It hadn't taken him long to sense a darkness in Will, a darkness not unlike his own. Caged by social norms, bound by morals and guilt, the profiler wasn't yet willing to admit it. But he would, eventually. Hannibal is nothing if not patient and he follows a carefully constructed plan to lead this beautiful mind into a world of whispering shadows and blood. He prides himself on his self-control, yet sometimes he allows his mind to create images of a shared hunt. It would be a sight of ravishing beauty to see the younger man clothed in the blood of their victim, looking black in the moonlight. After he had diagnosed Will with encephalitis and ensured that he got the best treatment available, the profiler seemed to get closer. On one occasion, he even accepted an invitation to dinner, albeit he knew that there would be several of Hannibal's acquaintances. He is well aware that it was a sign of trust the reclusive man had put in him. Yet it seemed he had crossed an invisible threshold, because all of a sudden Will started to withdraw. Their sessions since then getting nowhere behind the discussion of cases or the way Will reacted to them due to his empathy.

If Hannibal wouldn't be above such mundane feelings like frustration, he certainly would feel so right now. Every hard won progress of getting Will to accept his true self seemed to meld into nothingness. He has to learn more about Will, and although it is a common prejudice against psychoanalysis, it can't be argued that childhood plays a major role in creating one's inner workings. But whenever he tries to approach his childhood, Will is all defense. All Hannibal knows is that he grew up in Louisiana, that he never knew his mother. That they were poor and that he followed his father from boatyard to boatyard to the next poorly paid job. He knows that Will was always the new boy at school, always the stranger. And that's as far as it goes. So he has to rely on the knowledge he gathered in every exchange with the profiler. Hannibal has to admit to himself that, unlike he had stated at their first meeting, Will indeed has forts. Yet he was right in one point: There aren't forts to protect things he loves. Most certainly Will built those walls to protect the people around him from his own violent desires. Forts so efficient, that Will is most of the time blind unaware of the beast lurking inside him. And every time he thinks he gets a glimpse over the forts, Will rises higher ones. This is the reason why Will told him he wouldn't like him when psychoanalyzed. At least it's the reason Hannibal assumes. It's time to push the profiler in order to gather some insights. And what better topic than Will's motivation for his job. A job that, despite the healed up autoimmune disease, obviously drains him both physically and mentally.

 

“Why do you allow Jack to push you until you're only a step away from your breaking point?”

Will stops his pacing and looks at Hannibal.

“Why? I save lives.”

“And that feels good.”

“Generally speaking, yeah.”

“What about your life? I'm your friend, Will. I don't care about the lives you save. I care about your life.”

Will, who stood with his back to Hannibal up to that point, feigning to study a painting, gives a short and bitter laugh and turns to Hannibal.

“You caught me, Doctor Lecter. Saving lives doesn't feel good, not the way I do it.”

“Yet you do it anyway. Because not doing it would feel worse.”

Will turned away again. The “yes” is pressed through his lips like the word would physically hurt him. But Hannibal is patient and he only crosses his legs but furthermore shows no reaction.

“Tell me, Doctor, what am I good for otherwise?”

Hannibal frowns. He is almost disappointed. Of course, Will's self-depreciation is a useful tool for him to stir the younger man towards him. But for a reason he can't exactly pinpoint, Will's answer doesn't sit right with him. It would be lazy psychiatry to assure someone of their worth. So Hannibal answers “Is this something you wish me to tell you? I would be quite a poor psychiatrist if I gave you answers without you even making an effort to find them on your own. I am merely here to accompany you on your way to your own truths, Will.”

Will's voice gets sharper.

“I've already told you that you won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed.”

“And why is that?”

The profiler turns away once more and mumbles something unintelligible.

“I'm sorry, Will, I didn't get what you said.”

When Will doesn't react, Hannibal stands, fastens up his jacket and walks over, coming to stand not quite in Will's private space but neither far from it. The profiler sighs, knowing that the doctor won't let go.

“I don't want you to see me, because...” he swallows “Because I don't think I would be able to bear your disgust.”

“Will.”

Hannibal deliberately lowers his voice, letting his accent become just a touch stronger, surrounding his counterpart like the heavy weight of a velvet blanket, aware of the comforting effect it has.

“Nothing you could do or say can make me think less of you.”

When the younger man doesn't answer, Hannibal closes the gap between them and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Will, I care about you. Whatever it is that troubles you, let me help you.”

He feels a faint tremble running through the slightly smaller man. A low sound comes from Will, like he's gulping back a sob. But the crack in the top layer of Will Graham is closed as fast as it was opened. His composure straightens in the blink of an eye. When he turns on his heels his face looks feral, lake a trapped animal that would rather die fighting than getting chained and caged. _Beautiful_ Hannibal thinks.

Will's voice matches his expression when he hisses

“You can't just say something like this. You don't know me. And you don't wish to.”

And before Hannibal can reply he adds

“I presume our time is over. See you next week, Doctor Lecter” and rushes out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Will wants to scream, wants to slash out. He does nothing of that sort. Instead, he grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. Doctor Lecter is supposed to help him staying focused and stable, at least to a possible extent. Not to dig around in the muck of his past. That bastard. Fuck him, fuck Jack for sending him to the psychiatrist in the first place, fuck Alana and her paternalistic behavior. Why can't they just left him alone and let him do his work?

_Because they care about you._

Will laughs, somewhat hysterically. As if! They care about his empathy disorder, about the curiosity he is, about the killers he catches. He floors the gas pedal in a fruitless attempt to let the speed clean his mind like a strong autumn breeze might clean your backyard from leaves. It's nothing short of luck that his car doesn't skid on the icy streets.

At home he follows his routines in a daze. Letting out the dogs, cooking some vegetables with grounded meat for them, feeding them. He forgets to feed himself, but that's not unusual. And only when he sees Buster shivering he remembers to start a fire and turn on the heater. He pours himself three fingers of whiskey, downs them, pours another one and than another. After a while – hours? – he feels his anger fading. It isn't Hannibal's fault that he snapped at him and left his office when the appointment was not quite over although they had made a habit of sharing a glass of wine and conversations about literature or psychology. It was his own fault, because he's nothing more than a fucked up bastard. All he feels now is numbness and loneliness. He doesn't want to be alone right now, doesn't want to face this night. He needs something to hold onto, _someone_ to hold onto. But who would let him, who would risk getting stained?

_I'm your friend, Will. I care about you._

He knows that Hannibal is eager to bring Will's darkness to the surface, to make him see a part of himself he had denied for so long and conversely making Will see a part of Hannibal's own darkness. His psychiatrist, for all his intelligence, isn't aware how obvious some of his actions are to Will. What exact kind of darkness it is Hannibal wants to see him, he is not quite sure of.

But _this_ kind of darkness he is dealing with right now, this swamp of slick and oily tar that chokes him, this isn't something Hannibal would want to see nor should he.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal Lecter frowns at the ringing phone and puts his book on the nightstand. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it's 1:21 am. Who could call this late? The screen doesn't give it away, the caller identification must be disabled. “Lecter” he answers the phone. At first there is silence at the other end. Than he hears Will's voice, trembling and blurred. His keen nose can almost smell the cheap liquor.

“Hannibal...is it you?”

“Yes, Will. How can I help you?”

Silence again.

“I'm...'s...shit...'m sorry, probably had a drink to much, 'm sorry Doctor Lecter.”

“Will, what happened? Will?”

But the call had already been disconnected. It's not the first time that Will tried to drown his sorrow in alcohol. But he had never called Hannibal. If anything, inebriation makes him more anxious, not less. It's not the alcohol that made him call Hannibal.


	2. ...would feel worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some descriptions of self-destructive behavior, including drug abuse. Some of you might critisize that I use the name and effects of an existing drug. I thought a lot about it before deciding to do so. There are several reasons for me. Most of all, I don't like to patronize adults. I believe you to be fully capable to take care of yourself. You don't have to agree with me, but please don't attack me - unless you want to start an epic battle on ethical theory ;-)  
> I'm sorry if this is too harsh, but I feel like I should mention that.

Dim light cracks trough the windows of Will's house when Hannibal pulls in the driveway more than an hour later. He hears the dogs bark but Will doesn't show up like he normally would. It isn't until the third knock that the door opens and Hannibal is greeted by curious dog noses searching for treats. Will stands behind them in the half-shade, slightly swaying. The older man shoos the dogs away. They obey immediately, already used to him from the few times he took care of them whenever Will was on a case out of the state. He steps in and examines the profiler who still doesn't react. Will looks horrible. The averted eyes are red and swollen, his pale face sunken. Hannibal can smell the acid scent of cheap whiskey and the sour odor of vomit. Over all lies the unmistakable copper of blood. Hannibal's stomach clenches slightly, but for what reason he can't guess. After all, he's used to all kinds of bodily fluids.

Will moves his lips and it takes him several attempts to form words.

“Doctor Lecter? What... Why are you... here?”

“You called me, Will. Don't you remember? I was worried so I chose to pay you a visit.”

Will shakes his head. A wrong decision as he loses his balance. Hannibal catches him before he can fall over. He takes him in a gentle grip, guides him into the house and to the room which serves as living room as well as bedroom and hobby room. Hannibal seats Will on his bed, kneels in front of him and takes Will's face in his hands. The skin is cold to the touch, the cerulean eyes half closed, eye-lids fluttering.

“Will?”

The younger man responds neither to the touch nor Hannibal's voice. Either he is not able or doesn't want to. With the gray blanket from the bed put around Will's shoulders, Hannibal goes to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. Beside the sink are the expected bottles of whiskey. One emptied, the other halfway trough. More concerning is the bottle of lorazepam. He takes it with him to the couch and hands Will the glass of water who stares at it as if he's considering what he's ought to do with. Some of the water spills on his shirt when he takes the glass, until Hannibal's steady hand lifts it to his lips and allows him several greedy gulps until it is set aside. He tries to focus his gaze when a small orange prescription vial is shaken in front of him.

“How many of them did you take?”

When Will doesn't respond, Hannibal, leaning over him, grips his shoulder, maybe a little too tight, his voice now abrasive each word emphasized.

“Will! How many did you take?”

Will seems to come to, at least slightly. He shrugs.

“Few. Only wanna sleep without nightmares.”

Hannibal checks his pulse and pupils and sighs. He would advice every other person to bring someone in Will's state to a hospital. Immediately. But he knows how averted to hospitals Will is and he won't risk the profiler's trust. Will would be furious, especially when Jack gets wind of it. And Jack would, of that Hannibal is sure. Taking Will with him, monitoring his state of health and taking care of him presents a whole new level of influence on the profiler's mind. It will be a good excuse to seclude him from others. There will be objections of course, likely from Alana and Jack. The latter would be appeased the moment he understands that this is the best way to get Will back on track. And Alana? Hannibal is a doctor after all, experienced in cases like this from his former work as an emergency surgeon. He remembers the long nights as a young assistant doctor when he did night shifts in the hospital and had to deal with similar cases. He can assure the perfect treatment for Will, physical as well as mental. He will convince her as well as Will who will undoubtedly argue about it when he is fully consciousness. By then, they will be already at Hannibal's, which will work for his benefit.

“Will, I would like us to clean you up and put you to bed. Would you allow me?”

The answer is a nod or at least a movement of his head that could be interpreted as such. The only slightly shorter man doesn't put up resistance when Hannibal leads him to the bathroom and helps him undress. There are several cuts along with scars on Will's stomach, some white and nearly faded, others in all shades of pink and red. At least this reveals the origin of the smell of blood and confirms Hannibal's presumptions. Some of the wounds require stitches, but he hasn't suitable equipment at hand, so the butterfly closures from the first aid kit will have to suffice. After tending to the injuries he winds plastic wrap around Will's stomach and continues to undress him with little help form the man. His limbs are like those of a puppet, manipulable in any way Hannibal deems fit. He pauses when the half absent man is naked except for his briefs but eventually strips him of them too. After all, he was a physician and used to tend to people in all states of nakedness. Still, something doesn't sit right with him. For reasons he cannot fathom it feels more intimate than all his attempts to play with the empath's beautiful mind. Will looks vulnerable and his muscles tightens with the first touch of Hannibal's hands to his underwear. After washing Will, toweling him and helping him to put on some clean clothes – consistently and carefully avoiding his groin - he brings him to his bed and Will is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. It's nearly 4 a.m when Hannibal takes a chair to the side of the bed. He'll wait a few hours, monitoring Will until it's an adequate time to reschedule his appointments. Until then, he busies himself with packing some of Will's clothes, feeding the dogs and letting them out.

 

* * *

 

Will wakes up in an unfamiliar room. He can't recall how he got there and what had happened. He sits up, his breathing quickening. His head aches and he feels sick. He shivers and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that he would find himself in his own bed in Wolf Trap when he opens them again. What he sees instead is his psychiatrist standing on the threshold to the room.

“Doctor Lecter? What...?” He doesn't know how to finish his sentence.

“I must apologize for intruding, Will. I have knocked several times but you didn't answer and I must insist to examine you considering the condition you were in last night.”

“Condition? I... I can barely remember.”

“What do you remember?”

“Driving home from our appointment, having a drink or two... uhm... maybe I got carried away...” Will stutters, feeling the red heat of embarrassment flushing his face.

“I must have been quite drunk” he mutters. “Am I... is this... am I at your home? Did I drive here?”

“You're in one of my guestrooms. And no, you were hardly in a state to do so.”

Will gives him a questioning glance and Hannibal sighs. Even if Will won't remember everything, the main events will come back. And he would rather like to discuss last night's events with a clear minded Will.

“I suggest you get dressed and we will talk about everything. You'll find everything you need in the en suite, some of your clothes are in the drawer. I will be in the kitchen. If you need anything, please feel free to ask.”

Will answers with a nod. Still confused and dazed. Better to focus on the task at hand than to try sorting things out by himself.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal looks up when Will walks reluctantly in the kitchen. His dark curls are disheveled and he is still pale, but looks better and, over all, doesn't have the smell of alcohol, vomit and despair clining to him anymore. Hannibal gestures to the counter where a cup of coffee is already waiting.

“Please, have a seat.”

Hannibal, having Will's probably still weak stomach in mind, serves a light breakfast. They eat in silence, Will avoiding eye contact even more than he normally does. When they have finished and Hannibal, declining Will's stumbled offer to help, cleaned everything up, he leads them to the living-room. They sit down in comfortable armchairs, Hannibal leaning back, showing relaxation. Will remains on the verge, ready to jump up and flee like a scared animal. His eyes are fixated on the floor. He doesn't even feign to make eye contact when Hannibal summarizes the events of the previous night.

“So...” Will starts. “Better to get it over with, huh? I... Doctor Lecter, I have to apologize. I'm sorry for forcing you to witness my, um, well, little lapse.” He blushes and tries to manage a grin.

“There is no need to feel ashamed, Will. Although I have to admit that I was shocked about the severity of your self-destructive behavior.”

And that's as true as it's new to him. Hannibal had seen his good share of people in similar or worse states, both as a surgeon and a psychiatrist. It was, on occasion, the result of pushing and manipulating his patients, very aware of possible outcomes and curious to see what exactly would happen and if his assumptions would prove to be correct. But when he saw the young man in that night something felt wrong, even when it had been his plan to lead Will to a breaking point.

“It's a thing from adolescence, something I thought I've left behind. But” he gives a lopsided smile, “apparently not.” And he hurries to add “It was just a small onetime slip, nothing that will happen again.”

“Will, I have seen the injuries, I have treated them. And I have seen the scars. As I told you at the beginning of our therapy...”

“Conversations” Will interrupts him. “We're merely having conversations.”

Hannibal refuses to be disturbed and simply continues

“...I can't help you if you aren't honest with me, be it through outright lies or sins of omission. I have seen the scars, Will, and I can distinguish an old from a fresh one. You seem to forget that I used to be a surgeon. ”

“Okay, look, I would have told you about them if I had considered it as something important. Which it isn't.” Will grins bitterly and his voice is thick with sarcasm. “Now what? Do you want to commit me to a psychiatric ward?”

“Whereas it could be considered in such a state of self-harming behavior, I would prefer a more individual solution. I suggest personally monitoring you over the next few days. I have a spare room, as you have already noticed. Besides creating a safe space to regain mental stability it will ensure reestablishing a healthier diet and sleep pattern. And you will take sick leave, of course.”

“Of course? You sound as if this is already settled. I don't need your pity and I don't need anyone to babysit me, regardless of what Jack or Alana or you might think. I'm a grown man. ” Will spits out.

Hannibal is a patient man. He can wait for years until he dispatches one of his chosen victims. The psychiatrist isn't used to let his feelings guide his actions, but something in Will makes him feel and act in a totally unbeknownst behavior. Something inside him shifts very suddenly and very intense until it breaks free. Later, he will lay in his bed and wonder what it is that caused this loss of control. But now, he rises abrupt, glowers at Will and all but shouts.

“Than act like one!”

Will violently flinches back, but recovers quickly. Now, he looks once again like a trapped animal that would rather die fighting than getting chained and caged. But this time, Hannibal can't find any beauty in it.

“What about _you_ stop acting as if I spectacularly freaked out. I got fucking _drunk_ , Doctor Lecter. That happens from time to time. To normal people at least.”

Will takes a deep breath, already feeling the first flickers of shame for his rude outburst. He runs a hand over his face.

“Look, I got drunk and I called you in the middle of the night, for which I've already apologized. I appreciate your effort, I appreciate that you drove over to Wolf Trap and... and everything. I'm sorry that you had to see me like this and I _am_ thankful. But you didn't have to and you won't have to again. It's not that I am suicidal or something.”

Hannibal still hasn't gained his calm demeanor back, but is much more controlled now. Still, it infuriates him how Will denies the danger of his actions. His expression is stern and his voice tight when he answers.

“Will, you are clearly underestimating the situation. You were harming yourself, you were highly inebriated and with the medication you took...” He pauses and there is flicker in his eyes, gone within a fraction of a second, but long enough for Will to notice. If it were any other person than Hannibal, one could almost think it's a expression of pain.

“Lorazepam combined with alcohol can lead to respiratory depression. In similar cases patients sustained a brain damage due to the lack of oxygen if they didn't suffocate before that. Apart from that, how can you guarantee that you won't suffocate on your own vomit next time? Or accidentally cut too deep? You weren't in a state to fully control your actions.”

He composes himself by closing his eyes for a brief moment. It's only to convincingly portray the caring friend, Hannibal tells himself. He continues with a softer voice. “I am worried about you. I care for you, Will. And I won't let you die, whether you put yourself in such situations deliberately or due to a lack of self-care.”

The profiler remains silent, pressing his hands on his thighs to prevent them from shaking.

“Will, please. Let me help you.”

And it's the pleading sound of the psychiatrist's voice that, finally, makes Will look up and meet maroon eyes. Hannibal does mean what he says, doesn't he. Will lets his eyes linger for another second, just a little longer than normally. He breaths out, stretches his fingers. Hannibal wouldn't let go, he already knows this. But what really hits him is the sudden realization that he doesn't want him to. That he wants Hannibal to care, to know, to _see_ , although the thought is so frightening he wants to keep pushing the other man away. He swallows and, eyes closed, he says only one word:

 

“Okay.”

 


	3. Trust is a token of friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than I had thought it would, mainly because I'm still struggling with the sequence of tenses (as well as with syntax and terms blah-blah). Hence, I will update every other week from now on. Once again, I borrowed a few lines from the show which, sadly, doesn't belong to me.  
> I want to gift this chapter to OrangeBlossom for their very encouraging comment. Thank you so much.

They don't continue their conversation after Will's single-worded agreement. Instead, they start to arrange the next days, Hannibal guiding Will through the necessary steps. And for now, Will seems to accept Hannibal's guidance, too confused to organize things himself. And he is honestly relieved, that his not-quite-psychiatrist offers to call him in sick. He couldn't deal with Jack right now, maybe had never been able to.

They drive to Wolf Trap to gather some of Will's clothes and personal belongings he would need for the next couple of days. When they arrive, Alana's car is already in front of the little house and soon enough, the front door opens and Will finds himself under a flood of wagging tails and dog kisses. He laughs from the bottom of his heart, like he only ever does with his dogs. It lasts only for a few seconds, until he sees Alana. She stands in the doorway and her smile can't hide the frown. He straightens as she walks over to them. She greets them but turns to Hannibal immediately.

“What had happened, Hannibal? I got a text message from Will, asking me if I could take care of the dogs for a few days.”

By now, Will should be used to Alana speaking about him as if he isn't present or as if he's a child standing besides the grown-ups while they talk about his problems at school. He should be used to it, but he isn't. He dislikes this behavior regardless of whether it's directed at him or someone else. When Hannibal starts to speak, he realizes that he'd missed the opportunity to take agency. Not only does Alana treat him like a child, I _allows_ her to do so.

“Will has been in a rather worrisome condition. The last weeks have worn him out. Jack put to much pressure on him.”

His work as a profiler, the monsters that unfurl in his brain aren't what brought him over the tipping point, but Will doesn't comment on it.

“He agreed to stay with me for a few days. We came to the understanding that it is beneficial if he's monitored in a familiar environment from someone he already knows.” Hannibal gives Will a questioning glance as to prompt him to continue. Will merely nods.

“Hannibal, are you sure that this is a good decision?. Maybe he would benefit from a new surrounding and someone who isn't related only through the FBI. And you are his therapist, him staying with you is highly unethical.”

Will has enough and interjects “He isn't my therapist. Not officially at least. Jack saw to that. We're merely having conversations.”

Finally, Alana turns to Will, here eyes full of pity and... is this jealousy?

“Oh Will, don't take it the wrong way, I'm only concerned about Hannibal's reputation.”

“I think he is capable of making his decisions by himself, don't you think?”

“Will.” Hannibal lays a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

“Alana only tries to put everything in consideration. It's alright.” And to his former student he says: “I appreciate your concern, but be assured, everything is taken care of.”

Alana's expression becomes softer, almost affectionate. “Of course Hannibal, I didn't want to doubt your decisions.”

Will can only just suppress a snort, but Hannibal, always the gentleman, smiles kindly.

“No harm done, Alana.”

Without another glance at Will, Alana walks back into the house, followed by the two men and seven lively dogs.

 

* * *

 

It's early in the evening when they return to Hannibal's house. He prepares a light dinner, not quite comfort food, but something simple so as not to overwhelm Will. They go to bed early this night. Hannibal had put fresh linen on the bed in the guest room and added some extra pillows, scented with dried lavender. He puts a bottle of water and a glass on the nightstand and clean towels in the adjacent bathroom. He wants Will to be as comfortable as possible, although he can sense Will's self-consciousness. The empath obviously isn't used to be cared for. He stands in the doorway, fidgeting, his eyes fixating on anything but Hannibal.

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter. I'm sorry for all the trouble I'm causing you. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you.”

He rubs his neck. His usual displacement activity. It's astonishing how different Will acts compared to a few hours before when they had their argument. He seems to be too drained to fight, at least for now. And maybe he's even glad that he doesn't need to pretend anymore.

“Don't worry about it, Will. I'm glad that you allow me to help you.”

“Uh...yes. I...thank you, Doctor Lecter.”

“Please Will, it's high time to be on first name basis, don't you think?” Hannibal winks and gives one of his barely visible smiles.

“Yeah, that.. yes. Okay. Hannibal.” And there it is, a small grin when Will tests the name. It darts over his face like a startled animal. But it is a grin, nevertheless.

“Goodnight Hannibal.”

“Goodnight Will.”

 

* * * 

 

Because he'd already cleared the previous day from any appointments, Hannibal decides to follow his regular schedule that day. Besides, it will give his guest the time and space to settle in. He prepares breakfast for both of them, and lunch for Will. He doubts that the profiler feels comfortable enough to use Hannibal's kitchen. Maybe he even would forget to eat at all. Nevertheless, Will seems to be more at ease than the previous evening, even if just a little bit. Until they finished dinner and Hannibal suggests to redress Will's wounds, that is.

Will sits on his guestroom bed, Hannibal's medical supplies laid out beside him. The former surgeon pulls a chair in front of Will, which forces the younger man to spread his legs. Hannibal waits but Will only looks at him with a questioning expression.

 “If you would take your shirt off, please? It would facilitate tending to your wounds.”

“Of course.” Will smiles embarrassed and does as he's asked, while Hannibal puts on a pair of latex gloves. He unwraps the dressing and dabs the wound with iodine soaked gauze. The lump in Will's throat isn't from the burn of the sanitizer. He feels something akin to gratefulness. And the fondness... is it his or Hannibal's? He can't remember the last time that someone had touched him so tenderly. There is something that nearly makes him cry when he sees how careful Hannibal is. How fucked up is your live when the only time you feel cared for – and are able to accept it – is when you have hurt yourself? Will drinks in this feeling, until Hannibal reaches for a new dressing but is hindered in putting it on through the hem of Will's pants and boxers.

“Would you please lower your trousers a little bit?”

Will stiffens. He hates himself for this reaction immediately. Why is this an issue now? For years, almost two decades, he had been able to undergo all medical check-ups without a feeling of threat. Even when he was shot as an officer and a following infection made it indispensable to have a Foley catheter he hadn't had any problems with people touching him _there_. Not to mention the women – albeit few – he'd had sex with. He feels his unease grow, wants to take the bandage and do it by himself. But the fear of being questioned by Hannibal is worse than his discomfort. So he reaches down and shoves his pants a little bit aside. He can see the beginning of his dark, curly pubic hair and looks away while Hannibal works.

“There, all done. Please let me know if you feel any pain or if the wounds start to get warm.”

Will nods and is relieved when Hannibal gets up, gathers his supplies and gets ready to leave for his appointments.

 

* * *

 

They agreed to have their first session after dinner. That's why, after an eventless day for the both of them, they sit in the living-room now, in front of the fire place, the armchairs not quite facing each other. Hannibal takes a sip from his wine while he watches Will. The profiler stares in the dancing flames, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, frowning. It's obvious that he doesn't want start the conversation. Although Hannibal usually doesn't start the conversation – for one thing because this isn't how psychoanalysis works, for another thing because it gives him control – he lets it pass. But in exchange, he cuts straight to the chase, hoping to take Will by surprise.

“During our last appointment you left my office very agitated, Will. What did you feel?”

There is silence as the clock on the mantelpiece ticks by until Will eventually speaks.

“Anger. Disgust. Shame.”

Hannibal sighs inwardly at the single worded answer. “And that's why you hurt yourself.”

“I told you, I got drunk and...”

Hannibal interrupts him. “Will. We already had this discussion. There was a reason for you to turn towards self destructive behavior.”

Again, Will keeps silent for a minute before he replies. “Violent thoughts. Violence against other people.”

“You feel guilty for your thoughts. Because doing bad things to bad people would make you feel good. And in general, you don't allow yourself even the tiniest bit of happiness in your life. Apart from your pack, maybe.”

“If doing bad things to bad people makes us good, than what conclusion do you make about someone doing bad things to me? This makes me a bad person, doesn't it? There has to be something wrong with me.”

Hannibal looks at Will thoughtfully, considering, before he answers. “Blaming oneself is a desperate survival mechanism for a psyche that endured repeated abuse.”

Will sets his glass down so hard he nearly spills its content. “No! No, I'm not abused!”

“You choose to ignore it. And if you can't ignore it any longer, you resort to self destructive behavior. Because you want to be a good person by the standards of society. That's the abuse I'm referring to.”

Will snorts and turns to his not-quite-psychiatrist. “And what would you suggest then? To elevate above the morals of society? To act on every thought and wish instead of turning them against myself? It would be dangerous, with all the feelings I get through all the killers in my mind, _Doctor_.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at the deflection that the use of his title clearly is. Will notices his disapproval and looks down, hunching his shoulders as if in defense. Hannibal basks in the fact that he can push the profiler from angry to afraid in the blink of an eye.

“I'm merely saying that you should consider allowing yourself this emotions. There's a difference between embracing yourself and acting on it. And yet, you deny yourself. Clinging to the concept of being good. Who is it that you really want to hurt Will?”

The younger man stares into the fire and takes another sip of liquid courage. “I've told you that I...” he hesitates, “There are things inside me too dark to be shared. Hannibal, I'm not good at this, but I... I'd like to think of you as a friend. I'm more or less inexperienced on that score.” He laughs bitterly, thinking about his childhood and later, the time at the police and the college without as much as even acquaintances. “But I don't want you to think less of me and I know that people do.”

“Your empathy allows you to see this.” Will nods. He remembers the few times he tried to tell someone and the feelings of pity and even disgust that poured out of them. He bites his lips.

Hannibal continues “I meant what I said during our last appointment. Nothing you could do or say can make me think less of you. I consider you as a friend as well. And therefore I ask you to be honest with me, to trust me. Because placing one's trust in somebody is a token of friendship.”

Will leans back and closes his eyes. “I'm tired, Hannibal. Could we... could we please call it a day?”

Hannibal doesn't want to stop. Not at all. His need to pry the empath's mind open seems to grow with the physical closeness of the past days. He's sure that Will fantasizes about killing, imagines himself to derive joy from the pain he wants to inflict on others. But pushing too hard too early would ruin his plans, so he relents.

For the rest of the evening Will can't shake off the feeling that they had talked about entirely different things.

 


	4. A weak and hurt creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long delay. If I can find a beta I might be faster. As it is, I need much time to think about grammar. I'm afraid I thought too much about it and formerly right tenses are now wrong. Well... bear with me, please.  
> I don't share Will's view on psychoanalysis. In fact, it helped me a great deal, and still does. But we all know Will's opinion, please keep that in mind ;-) 
> 
> tw: flashback of past abuse

“I'd like to try a different approach today. Would you lay down on the chaise lounge, please?”

Will gives Hannibal an incredulous look. They are once more in Hannibal's living room for another not-therapy conversation.

“Austrian style? Really, Doctor Lecter?

“There is something to be said for the Freudian concept of the unconsciousness. The things that happen in our minds are, for the most part, not available to us. We wouldn't be able to function if all of our memories, fears and desires would always be accessible. Although the literary studies term the free flow of thoughts and feelings the stream of consciousness, I'm convinced that this is almost the same as the psychoanalytic approach. I'm aware that you didn't speak of that particular stream when you told me about the moments when you can't overcome your surroundings. But I want to transfer the picture. Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream. We are in this stream together, waiting what the waves may bring along. Indulge me, please.”

Will sighs. He can't say no after all the things Hannibal has done for him. And it's not so different from sitting beside Hannibal in front of the fire, is it? This is just a more extended version of a setting where he doesn't even have to make eye contact. Yet, he feels the imbalance of power even more so when he lays down on the chaise lounge. It is, unlike the couch, placed on the narrow side of the room, facing a bare wall. There had been a picture but Hannibal must have removed it for this purpose. Hannibal is sitting behind him of course, as it is usual in psychoanalysis. Is it the power imbalance that makes him feel a distant hunch of dread? Or is it what might come up from the hidden layers of his subconsciousness? Nevertheless, Will can't shake off the feeling that he is displayed like prey on a clearing, watched by a predator without being aware of it.

“Will, I want you to lay comfortable. Try to tell me the first thing that comes to your mind. It might help to look at the white wall or to close your eyes so to not be distracted through external stimuli. Try to not filter your thoughts and words, regardless of any assessment.”

He does as he is asked, shifting around on the couch until he is in a comfortable position, and closes his eyes. At least, Hannibal wouldn't see him rolling his eyes. Will abhors psychoanalysis. He held Hannibal in high regards as a professional and is now somewhat disappointed. What will he come up with? He thinks back to all the other therapists he was forced to see as a teenager and young adult, and the few ones he sought out himself when he thought he would get crazy within his own mind. But the whole Freudian “you want to have sex with your mother, even more so because she abandoned you” and “your dreams about a stag represent your father's penis” was just ridiculous. But than again, the conversations with Hannibal have never been shallow. Maybe it's because he feels a lot safer with Hannibal, or because he can't read the man nearly as well as he can read others that he is actually able to concentrate.

“I don't know how to start, Hannibal.”

“You already did. Just tell me the first image you see behind your eyes.”

“I don't know. Some kind of creature maybe?”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“It... it is in a bare room. In a corner. It's not really a person. More like a naked bramble, yet living. Thorny yet easy to break. Crippled. Like those tumbleweed in western. Have you ever recognized how ridiculous it is that they roll by whenever there's a duel albeit it's windless? I don't watch movies that often, but some weeks ago...”

Hannibal recognizes Wills babble as the typical deflection that it is. He could let it slide, but that would be poor psychology.

“What does this creature, what do you do in this image?”

“It just sits there. And I am on the other side of the room, watching it. I'm angry, I want to yell at it. No, no that's not it. I want to kick it, beat it, tear it apart. Because it's so _wrong_.”

“Why is that?”

Will snorts sarcastically. His whole composure now strained, his hands clenched in fists by his side.

“It believes to know what's right and wrong, who's good and who's bad. But reality proved those concepts wrong. Still, it clings to it. It's too weak to change, to act different.”

Hannibal smiles. For him, it seems to be obvious that the creature represents the morals of society. Hannibal feels joy flaring up in him. He was right in his assumptions about the younger man. Will spoke of weakness and change, he sees himself as a predator, ready to destroy those who dare to insult him, those who hide behind common concepts of right and wrong. As if he and Hannibal were ever bound to such human rules. Yet, Will had internalized parts of this morals, so he will have to push Will into the right direction for the profiler to reach his full potential. Will must destroy this part of himself, this part that was merely put over this precious, beautiful mind.

Will's voice is sharp when he says “Any thoughts on that, Doctor Lecter?”

Several minutes passed without either of them speaking. Hannibal realizes that he had been lost in marveling about the beauty Will could create once he's overcome the last barriers. He clears his throat.

“I must apologize, I had to think about your words. I believe this creature depicts your perceptions of right and wrong, of the standard concepts of society. But a part of you acknowledges that this isn't your true self but a alien element that needs to be dislodged. Empower yourself, Will. Because eventually you...”

But Hannibal can't finish his thoughts, because suddenly Will jumps up and turns to him. His face is distorted by passionate anger. _Beautiful_ is the word that comes to Hannibal's mind at the sight.

“You see it as a part of me that is wrong? Debauched?” And he continues, bitterly, sarcastically “Thank you. What would I do without your psychoanalytical insight. You know what? You're right. That ends the session for today, don't you think? What a great progress. Good night, Doctor Lecter.”

And with that he leaves the room without another glance in Hannibal's direction. The older man crosses his legs and lets his mind wander, curious about the possible outcomes of the evening. Will the stubborn profiler hurt himself again? Or will he come to terms that he is unlike the people around them, that he is above those who can't read others like he does, who can't appreciate cruel beauty like Hannibal does.

 

* * *

 

Will's thoughts are racing and his body feels numb but for the searing hot anger that flares through him. Later, when he lies in his bed, he has to admit that he isn't angry at Hannibal. He's angry at himself. After all, he didn't play Hannibal's stupid Freudian game. He described an image that has followed him since years. He chose it deliberately because he wanted Hannibal to understand him. A frightened, fragile thing, vulnerable and defenseless, yet the aim of Will's anger. He thought that it would be obvious – a hurt part of himself that he wants to hurt even more, precisely because it is already hurt.

Nevertheless, the psychiatrist didn't comprehend it. Once again, Will wonders why Hannibal is so blind. He seems to look in a totally different direction. But why? And what is he looking for? Yes, Will is angry at himself. He wanted to tell Hannibal, he still does. So, so much. But he is too much a coward, he thinks, and he berates himself for it. And while he muses about this, he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

There are hands all over him, roaming over his body, gripping painfully, tearing on his shirt and moving down, down... He cries and squirms, tries to struggle but is hold in place by a heavy weight, forcing the breath from his lungs.

 

Will screams.

 

And opens his eyes.

 

He is in his bed, in Hannibal's guestroom. And he _knows_ it, he knows where he is. But still, he can feel those hands, can almost see them, dreads what will happen next even if he knows that there isn't any possibility that... He can't stop the scream that rips its way through his throat and out of his mouth. He can't move, he can't, he can't. It's dark and where is the light and why can't he move? There isn't enough air around him and it's cold and hot and...

Suddenly, the door opens and the light from the hallway spills in. A figure stands in the doorway and for a second his heart stops beating and he sees _him_. But it's Hannibal's worried voice he hears, saying his name, and than the man is at his side, kneeling down beside his bed, speaking to him.

“Will? Will, it's alright. I'm here now. It was only a nightmare. You are safe.”

And Will sobs, because it wasn't a nightmare, as much as he wants it to be. This are memories, from his mind as well as his body. He feels so small, so young, so fragile and suddenly all he wants is to be hold, despite the previous feeling of being smothered. He shakes his head and reaches out for Hannibal, a silent plea in his eyes.

Later, Hannibal can't recall how he got up and settled on the mattress. All at once he finds himself with the younger man in his arms, feels him shaking, hears his convulsive sobbing. It's excruciating to see him in such violent pain. A feeling he hadn't felt since Mischa and since the moment they came and took her and... he stops this particular train of thoughts and closes the door to those rooms in his mind. Unconsciously, he starts to murmur soft words in his native language, eventually merging into a lullaby like he had always done when his baby sister couldn't sleep.

_Čiūčia liūlia dukrytėla mano mylimoji_

_Kiek jau kartų per dienelį tavį pakilojau_

_Pakilojau panešiojau patalėlį klojau_

_Čiūčia liūlia dukrytėla mano mylimoji_

_Auk didutė būk greitutė mano dukrytėla_

_Čiūčia liūlia dukrytėla mano mylimoji._

The lyrics don't match the situation, hadn't even back than, Mischa being his sister, not his daughter, although he'd always felt a responsibility for her like a parent. But the meaning of the song is unimportant. It's the soothing melody that matters.

Oh, how he had misjudged the situation. Eager to see Will, radiant in savage blood lust, he hadn't recognized that this isn't the only kind of darkness inside the profiler's mind. There is something that lacks all the beauty of the darkness Hannibal so revels in. No, this is a darkness that reminds him of a cold winter night decades ago. A trauma which brings nothing but suffocating pain. Thinking back, it had been obvious. He sits there, berating himself, while he gently rocks the younger man in his arms until Will's sobs gradually stop, his breath evens and he falls asleep. Trusting, in the arms of a monster.

Though he doesn't now that.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby Hannibal sings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dqn_ETaQX08
> 
> Translation:  
> Hush-a-bye, my little daughter,  
> My beloved,  
> How many times during the day  
> Have I already picked you up,  
> I've already picked you up and carried you,  
> Put you down in your cradle.  
> Hush-a-bye, my little daughter,  
> My beloved,  
> Grow up quickly  
> My little daughter,  
> Hush-a-bye, my little daughter,  
> My beloved.
> 
> source: https://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3988


	5. It hurt so much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, do you know what happened? The wonderful hannisquid volunteered to beta this chapter. I really don't know how she was able to bear the shitload of mistakes, but she did. ♥ Come admire her at tumblr [Hannisquid](https://hannisquid.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I don't know who designed the Hannibal Lecter font, but my fannibal heart is happy someone did. A non cannibal font is in the end notes, in case you have problems deciphering it.
> 
> tw: child abuse

Will wakes to sunbeams flickering through the curtains. It takes him a few moments to come to and recall the previous night. He feels a slight pang of sadness as he realizes that he's alone. But then, it would be more embarrassing to wake up still cradled in his friend's arms. The relief he expects, from not having told Hannibal anything, doesn't come, which is more than a little disconcerting. Shouldn't he be glad about it? Because every time the immediate fear of the dark ebbs he builds his forts up again, not willing to share anything, like the night he had called Hannibal, drunk and intoxicated. But now? Now he doesn't feel the need to immediately clam up again. Instead, he feels something akin to hope, though still vulnerable, like he's a raw wound that will hurt whenever touched by so much as a soft breeze. Yet there is hope. Hope that something might change, that someone will actually believe him and not see him as something tainted.

He takes his time in the bathroom, showering longer than usual. Nervousness makes itself known, his hands shaking slightly as he finally goes downstairs and enters the kitchen., He is in equal parts relieved and disappointed to find it empty. On the counter is a note that reads:

 

 

Will eats, cleans up and sits at the counter for a while before he decides to go to the living-room and browse through all the books. Although Hannibal has a strikingly diverse collection on topics ranging from ancient mythology to the latest publications on cognitive science, Will has no peace of mind and can't concentrate on reading. Even though the past few days have shown the contrary, his suppression mechanisms usually work quite well. This is how he is able to think about recent events without going anywhere near the place in his mind that he's tried to hide from everyone, yet desperately wants to show Hannibal. Diverting his own feelings, he thinks about his friend's actions. Even though he feels guilty about dragging Hannibal into his world, he is grateful. And yet, he can't shake the feeling that there is more to it than just helpfulness. He doesn't want to doubt Hannibal's motives, but life has taught him that nothing good ever comes without a price. Since he was a child he often knew the price beforehand, even if he simply chose to ignore it. With Hannibal, though, it is different. The man is incredibly hard to read. What Will knows, though, is that the psychiatrist, despite all his acquaintances and admirers, is lonely. But why does he seek friendship with Will of all people? The previous night, Will felt the need to care, to protect. But they couldn't have been Hannibal's feelings, could they? They must have been Will's projections of what he wants, what he yearns for – and if he is honest with himself, not from anyone but Hannibal.

What he is sure about, though, is that the psychiatrist seemed almost confused. But why? He saw the truth, he knows Will's secret and it shouldn't have been a shocking revelation. What Hannibal knows about Will's family and childhood – at least the little bit he’s amassed – should have made it obvious that Will had been the perfect victim. Moving often, always being the new boy at school, always the stranger, no one to turn to but a father. A father who worked so hard to afford what little they had. A boy, already abandoned by his mother, wasn't likely to tell his father things that could upset him, or worse, could make him send Will away. Like the majority of victims, Will had been convinced that it was somehow his fault, that he would be abandoned again, even if his father had been nothing but loving. As cruel as it is Will's case is almost textbook - something Hannibal would know. The only conclusion left for the profiler is that Hannibal had been looking in a completely different direction. Even before his breakdown – and Will can accept it as such by now – Hannibal was searching for another kind of darkness in the empath's exceptional mind. The conversations during the last few days confirmed Will's assumption that they had both been looking at two different parts in the bone arena of his skull.

The hours pass quickly and Will jolts when he hears the front door being unlocked. He stands up to go and greet Hannibal, but his heart misses a beat as he enters the hallway. There stands the tall, ash blond man and by his side is an excited...

“Winston!”

Will all but runs to them, falls to his knees and buries his face in the fur of a very happy dog. Until this moment he hadn't noticed just how much he'd missed his pack. He cuddles the dog and lets his face be licked by a wet tongue. All the while Hannibal stands patiently beside them with a smile that only a few people would recognise as such. His guest finally seems to remember the other man and awkwardly stands up, carefully looking up until his eyes reach maroon ones, but only for a second.

“Hannibal, how did you...? I mean, why?” He is at a loss of words and Hannibal revels in the fact that he’s taken the sharp witted profiler by surprise.

“Hello to you too, Will.”

Despite those reprimanding words, it's obvious that Hannibal doesn't mind the rudeness of having been ignored. Not if he sees the joy in Will's eyes.

“After last night’s events, I figured you would feel more at ease with one of your canine companions. Thus I convinced Alana to let me bring Winston.”

Will doubts that Hannibal had to do a lot of persuading. Anger bubbles to the surface as he thinks about the look she always has when speaking with the psychiatrist. Will is convinced that she would lay down and roll around, just like his dogs, if Hannibal commanded her to do so. But his musings are immediately replaced by a warmth in his chest as he realises that Hannibal cares so much about him that he is willing to bring a fur shedding animal into his pristine home. And just like that, he does something that shocks both of them: He takes a step closer to the other man and hugs him. The latter recovers immediately and wraps his arms around Will, carefully, loosely. He wants to hold the younger man for much longer, yet far too soon Will stumbles back, awkwardly rubbing his neck, face flushed and gaze averted.

“Thank you.” he whispers and all Hannibal can do is to smile. That's when Will knows that Hannibal is the right person to share his burden with.

Eyes downcast, voice barely above a whisper, he says “I want to tell you about the dream last night.”

He knows that he doesn't have to elaborate on what he means. Hannibal lays a hand on the slightly smaller man's shoulder and squeezes it softly.

 

* * *

 

Once again, after dinner where Hannibal scolds him for not eating lunch, they sit by the fire. Will refused the proffered glass of wine. If he is to do this, he wants to do it clear-headed.

He stands in front of the fireside and waits for Hannibal to return from the kitchen. When the man comes in, he’s carrying a heavy blanket, Winston at his heels. The traitorous dog had always had a soft spot for the doctor, even if Will suspects that the mutt's sudden interest in psychiatrists stems from their cooking skills. Hannibal feigns that he only tolerates the dog, but even if he is one of the hardest people to read, Will knows that he is fond of the stray though determined not to show it. It wouldn't fit your persona, would it? Will doesn't know where this thought comes from, but before he can mull over it, he is interrupted by Hannibal putting the blanket on the couch.

He doesn't tell Will that he needn't tell him things he isn't comfortable with, that he can stick with small talk. Will is, after all, stubborn and won't let his defenses down if he doesn't wish to do so. But Will is also remarkably good at backing away at the last minute and denying himself the closeness he so desperately longs for. So Hannibal doesn't give him the standard psychotherapeutic reassurance but simply gestures for Will to sit down on the couch while he himself settles in an armchair, facing Will. Winston lays down besides Hannibal, regarding Will for a moment before placing his head on his front paws. The older man waits patiently for Will to begin and after some attempts, his mouth opening and closing again without a single word coming out, he does just that.

“We moved a lot, my dad and I. Usually once a year, sometimes twice. Like myself, he didn't really make friends. Nothing more than having a beer after work with some guys from the docks. I think my dad was as alone as I was. But, at least we had each other. That is, until the summer I turned twelve. He had a job at a boatyard for a few months and when the work stopped, a neighbor helped him to get another job close by. They became friends and we often spent our evenings with him, sat on the porch of our trailer, eating ready-made meals. And yes, it's cliche, but we lived in a trailer park. My dad did everything to build something close to a home, with the small amount of time and money he had. He cared for us, cared for me. It wasn't his fault.”

Hannibal regards Will in silence, with an open and encouraging look. When Will sees no signs of contempt for his dad, he continues.

“It had been textbook, but I learned that much later during my time as a detective. Back then, I was just a kid. I wasn't naive, I was twelve and of course I knew what sex was – at least the basics – and of course I jerked off regularly.”

The flush on Will's cheek is a telltale sign of the bigot morals of society. Something as normal and healthy as masturbating being seen as something to be ashamed of.

“I hadn't had sex ed at school and my dad gave me 'the talk' much later, when he knew that I was dating a girl. It was awkward, of course, I was a teenager. But he was very open-minded, told me to use protection, not only to prevent pregnancy but also STIs. He said that it...” Will takes a deep breath “...that I had to use it even when I'm with a guy because of that. He couldn't know that I...that I was already very aware of it.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But when I turned twelve, I had no experience, damn, I was unkissed...”

Will swallows hard and draws his knees up close to him, pulling the blanket over his legs and wrapping his arms around them.

“It didn't start with light touches, as you might think. I had a bad feeling whenever I was around him. Maybe it was the way he looked at me or... I don't know. My empathy told me something, but when I realized what it was, it was already too late. I should have been more careful, I should have known, I should have listened to myself, but I brought it on myself.”

“Will, you didn't...” Hannibal starts. But Will interrupts him.

“Don't, Hannibal. Please. Don't. I... I won't be able to tell you the rest if you say anything now.”

Hannibal nods in acknowledgment, giving Will the sign to continue.

“In his new job, my dad had to stay away overnight once or twice a week. He knew me to be more responsible than most of my peers, but I guess he still felt bad about leaving his twelve year old son alone. He asked his friend if he could come over, check on me, make sure that I ate something. When this friend said that I could eat with him my dad was so happy. I didn't want to, but I couldn't disappoint him. Not when it was the first time in a long time that he had had someone to talk to. I understood that a son can't substitute for a friend. Well, it began right on the first night I went to my dad's friend’s for dinner. I can't stand red beans and rice ever since.”

Will's grip on the blanket tightens and he shakes his head repeatedly. When he starts to speak again it's rapid and monotonous, detached.

“There isn't much left to say. He didn't show me pornography or kiss me or touch me or anything. He simply grabbed me after dinner and slammed me against the wall. I was so dizzy I didn't realize that he'd dragged me to his bed. He threw me onto it and raped me. It went on like this for nearly a year, until we left for the next boatyard. I never told my dad. Later, I tried to tell a teacher, but I could feel the pity and disgust radiating from her before I even told her more than 'someone touched me'. And the psychiatrists later on... well, how could I trust people who only saw me as something to push their career? That is all.”

Will falls silent. He seems to struggle with himself, like he wants to add something, but doesn't dare to , his breath becoming more rapid. Hannibal waits a few minutes, silent as Will asked him to be. He sees how the younger man gulps back sobs. It's obvious that he doesn't want to lose control over his emotions. Hannibal hasn't Will's capability of self-deception. That's why he knows that what he does next isn't just another attempt at manipulating Will. It's as simple as not being able to bear seeing Will choking on his pain.

“Winston.”

The dog perks up his ears, cocks his head and gives Hannibal a quizzical look. Hannibal points to the couch and to Will's astonishment Winston obeys immediately, hops on it and settles down close to his pack leader. It is this gesture, letting a dog – Will's dog – on the undoubtedly expensive furniture – that finally breaks the last defense in Will and he allows the tears to flow, sobbing openly.

“It hurt, Hannibal, it hurt so much.”

Hannibal can picture it with agonizing clearness. A malnourished boy with pale skin, too small for his age. Tears clinging on long eyelashes, his bluish-green eyes wide-open with fear. A shadow looming over him, weight pressing him down into a shabby mattress, sticky breath hitting his face. Brutal grunts piercing his ears. In his years of working as a psychiatrist, Hannibal had had several patients with similar traumatic experiences, but he'd never felt what he feels now: A painful longing to protect this child, to soothe and to comfort. But he cannot undo what has been done.

“I screamed, I begged him to stop. But I learned quickly that he would beat me harder the louder I was. So I tried to be silent. I learned to bite on a pillow to muffle my screams when he took me from behind. I learned to hide blood-stained shorts from my dad, I learned to walk straight even when I was in pain. And when we finally moved to the next city, I learned to forget.”

Will sniffles and buries his face deeper in golden fur.

“I mean, I always knew on some level and I had irregular breakdowns, where I’d hurt myself. But I managed, I got better somehow. I had sex with women, I no longer panicked during health checks. But then you came along and spoke about abuse and I was so exhausted by Jack and the drugs for the encephalitis...”

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, lifting it up from Winston's fur.

“You care for me. I don't know why, but for the first time since my dad died I didn’t want to turn someone’s help down immediately. I wanted to be honest with you, because I don't know how else to pay you back and because it feels good, even if it hurts.”

The glimpse Hannibal gets from Will is as good as verbal permission to speak.

“You don't owe me anything, my dear Will. If anything it's me who has to thank you for your honesty.”

He doesn't comment on Will's confession, sensing that the profiler isn't ready yet and that it should be Will’s choice to bring up the subject. That's why they simply share the silence, Will now entirely wrapped up in the blanket, Winston snoring softly at his feet. Hannibal stares into the flames and imagines a faceless man slowly roasting to death.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's note reads:  
> Dear Will,  
> I had to leave to attend to my patients and run some errands. I apologize for being inhospitable. You will find breakfast in the oven and lunch in the refrigerator. Please make yourself comfortable. I recommend you eat and rest. Please don't hesitate to call me on my emergency number if you are in need of anything. I will be back at 4pm.  
> Yours  
> Hannibal Lecter


	6. Time to leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delay because life etc.  
> Here we are, once again beta’d by the wonderful  
> [hannisquid](https://hannisquid.tumblr.com/)

The days after he revealed his past Will feels detached but more grounded. There are moments when he drifts back into his adolescence, during which his body isn't his own but at the same time he can feel it painfully. It's similar to the feeling you get when your hands are freezing cold or numb. You do not feel them but at the same time, because of this, you are painfully aware of them. Like they are foreign limbs attached to your body. Yet just like kneading your hands to get the circulation flowing, Hannibal's presence helps him to slip back into his present body. The longer they are in such close proximity, the more insight Will gains. All those microexpressions are distinguishable once you acknowledge them. There's no pity and probably no disgust, because if he felt the latter, Hannibal surely would have stopped with all those casual, light touches to Will's back when he wants him to sidestep in the kitchen, to his shoulder when he bends over him to pour the wine at dinner, to his hands when he casually takes the plates from them. Winston, of course, helps a lot too. He had always been the most attentive of his dogs, whining when Will starts to toss and gasp in the throws of a nightmare. It's not easy to fall asleep again and more often than not he ends up on Hannibal's couch, because here he can feel his friend's presence more than in the guest room. And this alone is enough to calm him. Of course, Hannibal notices and so they share the wee-hours sitting side by side, Hannibal patient as ever, always waiting until Will breaks the silence. Now that the first step is done, it becomes easier – but by no means easy – to talk about those incidents all those years ago.

“My only worth to him lay in the way he could use me. I was a body for him to fuck, and he told me I should be glad that I was a pretty boy. He asked me what use I had, being the weird boy. If I really believed that my teachers weren't annoyed by the strange boy that just didn't want to fit in.” he tells Hannibal. “He said that I was a bad kid, that this was why my mother left and that I was making my dad's life harder than it already was. I think I knew this to be wrong, I certainly do today. And yet...” he falls silent.

“And yet you couldn’t prevent emphathizing with him. Your empathy forced you to let him inside your head. You saw yourself through his eyes, felt his desires for children like they were your own, and adopted his opinion of you as something worthless. Your stubborn will and your psychological and forensic knowledge tell you that these weren’t your own thoughts and feelings. Internalizing it, feeling rather than knowing, is a different matter. There is still a part in you that clings to his point of view” Hannibal offers. “And that is why you repeat this pattern over and over again. You are not a helpless child anymore, Will. It is your decision to make whether you let people use you, whether you let Jack abuse you as the tool he sees you as.”

He understands that his work for Jack isn't altruistic, as most of human actions aren't. One cannot act unrelated to their own self, even Will with all his empathy. It's like he told Hannibal two weeks ago: He doesn't feel good saving lives, but would feel worse if he didn't. This is what makes it easier for Will to prolong his sick leave. It's in his goddamn rights to do so. He doesn't want to catch killers just to feel like he has the right to exist. He doesn't want to be used anymore.

“You don't see me as something you could use for your own good, do you, Hannibal?”

“No”, he answers. “I don't.”

 

* * *

 

When Hannibal thinks about it, he can't help but marvel at Will's ability to see him. Hannibal had always used people, manipulated them to sate his own curiosity. In the beginning, it was the same with Will. He had been convinced that every step he took was to gain access to this wonderful mind and to the darkness he knows lurks there. At least, he's still sure of that. The past abuse isn't the only darkness inside Will. But these are two different kinds of darkness and Hannibal won't even start to compare them. There's the trauma Will had suffered, like a dark hole, swallowing strength and hope and joy if Will gets too close. It's like a swamp, musty and treacherous, threatening to clutch Will and pull him under until he suffocates. There is also the darkness in which Hannibal revels. It's a darkness of his own making, not one that consumes him but is fed by him, a lightless fire that doesn't cast shadows but highlights the most glorious elements. It's beautiful, and this part of Hannibal is so much like Will's. Different, but identically so. He wants Will to become his true self. But there is more to it than sating his own longing for an equal, someone to share his mind with. He truly wants to comfort Will, to erase one darkness by accepting the other kind. Bringing Winston into his own home wasn't a necessary step to manipulate Will. It was an spontaneous action resulting from his need to ease Will's pain. Hannibal was never one for rash decisions for the sake of another person, not since his sister had died. He cares for the profiler like he hasn't cared for someone for decades. If curiosity was his only incentive, if the wish to be seen his strongest desire, then there would have been plenty of opportunities, the most promising keeping Will's encephalitis a secret. But it is the prospect of a friendship that motivates him. Not just to anyone, but to Will, to the man for whom he feels a radiating warmth inside him. Contrary to his usual patience, he feels himself becoming anxious. This isn't curiosity anymore. He's invested in Will and the younger man's well-being. It makes him feel vulnerable and that is disconcerting. He must take actions to regain control.

 

* * *

 

Will isn't used to being cared for, and as the days tick away he feels his guilt growing. It's the fourth week now. How much longer can he impose on Hannibal until the man will – no doubt politely – send him away? Will dreads the day. He should probably take Winston, collect his other dogs from Alana and go back to Wolf Trap. It's always easier to leave than to be left. Hannibal never brings it up, though, and Will tells himself every night that he will raise the topic the next day. He never does.

The nightmares become fewer and easier to bear, but on this particular morning it's bad. Will wakes up with his head pounding. He feels dizzy and nauseous. Winston whines and restlessly pads around. The clicking of the dog's nails on the hardwood floor doesn't help. He forces himself out of the bed and down the stairs to let him outside. The crisp morning air doesn't do anything for his head, so he heads to the kitchen. Hannibal isn't there although it's late enough that the man must be awake. He might be on one of his morning runs. Will doesn't know if Hannibal does much exercise, but he recognizes the vibrant way Hannibal moves, the ease with which he carries things. There must be a well-conditioned body under all those layers of expensive clothing. The doctor isn't a fan of pain medication when it comes to Will, which seems fair, given the amount Will used to swallow. With his encephalitis cured, he knows Will's headaches are triggered by mental overload. That doesn't mean that the pain isn't real, but he wants to coach Will in different approaches, such as breathing exercises and, above all, self-awareness so the headaches do not have the chance to become severe. But today it's particularly bad and Will just doesn't want to endure it. The meds must be in the master bathroom, but Hannibal wouldn't mind, would he? Still, guilt for crossing a boundary gnaws at him when he climbs the stairs after feeding Winston and leaving him downstairs.

Will is lost in thought and that's why he doesn't hear the shower running until he opens the door to the bathroom. His cheeks turn red and he wants to hastily retreat with a mumbled apology, but finds himself frozen in place. Hannibal is in the shower, back turned to Will and hasn't noticed him. The glass of the shower stall isn't frosted like most people have. Hannibal's self-confidence is too distinct for him to need that semblance of privacy most people do, even in their own homes. Only rivulets of water running down the glass indicate that there is anything between the two men. Will smells the herbal shampoo Hannibal uses and even the natural scent of the man, earthy and strong. His friend rinses his hair, unknowingly showing off his strong muscles when he lifts his arms to run his hands through his grayish blond hair. It's the first time Will has seen it uncombed. His eyes follows water drops running from Hannibal's neck down his flexing shoulder blades, down his spine, further down to his back, right until they reach the hollow above his ass. But before his eyes can move further down, he's startled when he hears a soft moan. He jerks his gaze upwards and sees that one arm is now braced against the shower wall while the other has vanished in front of Hannibal and starts to move like he... oh.

Now Will really should leave. He's invading a private moment despite all Hannibal has done for him. Shouldn't he respect his friend's boundaries, even more so with his own background of abuse? But he can't. Or maybe he just doesn't want to. However, this question doesn't go through Will's mind as he watches the older man touching himself. Hannibal's moans are deep and rumbling and undeniably erotic, his breath coming faster, as do the movements of the hand hidden from Will's sight. He doesn't know how long he stands there, watching Hannibal, but stays until little tremors run through the defined body. The movement of Hannibal's arm becomes erratic and then, eventually, he throws his head back and comes, the muscles in his ass contracting as he orgasms and unloads in several shots, judging from the spasms running through the man's whole body.

Will leaves silently. If Hannibal noticed his presence it would be unbearably embarrassing. Even worse, Hannibal would probably regret welcoming Will into his home, he would be rightfully angry and quit his friendship with Will. Back in the guest room, leaning against the closed door Will tries to gather his wits. He feels guilty and ashamed, yet also hot all over. Before he's aware of what he’s doing, his jeans are already open, his right hand down his boxers, gripping his erect cock. He doesn't want to, hadn't planned on doing this. It's not often that he touches himself and when he does, it's mechanical, fast, and only a means to an end. Now though, he wonders how Hannibal looks, imagines him big, uncircumcised, his length hard and slightly red, the tip of his cock disappearing with every upward stroke. If he gave it any thought, he would probably be embarrassed at how fast he comes. But as it is, he can't concentrate on anything but the image of Hannibal's naked body and low moans, and he comes after only a few strokes, right there, leaning against the door, in his boxers.

When the post-orgasm haze clears away, anxiety starts to build up. It's not so much fear that Hannibal might notice that something is odd, but his own sudden and strong arousal. He hadn't thought about men in a sexual way since his adolescence, and now he gets off on seeing Hannibal of all people? The psychiatrist is his first chance for a friendship in decades or, if he is completely honest with himself, ever. He's certainly just confused because revisiting the past had messed with him, isn't he? It can't be for another reason. Of course, back then, before the abuse, he only had just began to explore his sexuality. Sudden memories come back to him, his teenage self lying on his bed, waking up from a wet dream about the captain of the school's baseball team, or jerking off to fantasies about his chemistry teacher. He always knew on some level that he was bisexual, but had allowed himself only heterosexual encounters, hadn't even dared to so much as fantasize about being with another man.

And now this... whatever it is. Suddenly, it's too much, the past weeks crashing down on him like a building during an earthquake. He needs to breathe, he needs distance, he needs the security of his secluded little house. That's why, after breakfast, he says to Hannibal “I think it's time for me to go back to Wolf Trap.”

 


End file.
